Never Home(Part 1): Getting to Xanadu
When an inmate gets out of prison, it is a rebirth - and there are questions they confront in order to start a new life. One of the most important ones is, "Where am I going to live?" As a society, we have no idea of the reality that the majority of inmates get out of prison and that they will become our neighbors.
I know this - because I was that inmate, and I am now "that neighbor".
Knowing where you live, where and what you call home is a definitive brick in our self-worth. It is a central question for people from gang members (who will live and die for neighborhoods they own no property in) to immigrants. In the US, a whole segment of people - African Americans - live lives that include grappling with the legacy of slavery and having been cut off from their own heritage.
Before going to prison, I had a home - a house I shared with my now ex-wife and her 4 kids (and sometimes my own). I went away, ushered into the Venus-fly-trap of prison (Black people are primarily the "flies") by her false accusations of domestic violence. The result: for 3 years, I was homeless/incarcerated.
During my incarceration, I railed against the virus of institutionalization. Inmates slowly and almost surely acclimate to prison, calling their small cells and large cellblock "home" - cells themselves are "houses" or "cribs". Sheets are torn to make curtains, Muslim prayer rugs become area rugs, concrete walls are adorned with art and photographs. Not me, though. I put up one picture and kept my cell spartan.
I paroled in March of 2016, homeless - my parole plan was initially to go to Texas where my parents are but I cooled quickly on that idea - after all, my parents' house quit being home when I was 17. My backup plan became to go crash at my little brother's. This short-term plan became even shorter when the property instituted a new policy that any guest after 2 weeks would have to go through a background check.
Background checks are the death knell to any inmate's dream of renting in Colorado. With the influx of people driven by marijuana access and Denver's economic boom, property owners can afford to be discriminating in who they rent to - and felons are the new "untouchables" caste.
So, I had to find a Plan C. Salvation came from a Muslim brother, Khalid, who is based in Colorado Springs. An ex-con who had been working diligently to provide services to formerly incarcerated, he had struck deals with a couple of property managers to provide housing for the formerly incarcerated in the Denver area - I was able to move into a house in Montbello, 4 bedrooms split between up to 8 residents.
The house had not been remodeled much after the prior tenants nor cleaned up very well from the cat urine that saturated the basement, but it was livable - especially so to me and anyone else in comparison to a prison cell. I settled in, however, still with the sense of being transient, still having the drive to find a space that didn't feel like a warehouse. My room was one of the upstairs ones and in comparison to the other 3, small as hell. My roommate was Gervais Spencer, a brother around my age, who worked as a chef and was making moves to start his own BBQ business. We hit it off pretty well.
I was out until June, when I was returned to prison for a 90 day stint for a violating a technical condition of parole (connected in part to harassment from the ex). Khalid packed up my things and stored them in the garage - not before one of the other residents scavenged through my things, however- stealing several watches, my computer, and clothes. (Ironically, I ran into dude in jail on a second 90-day turnaround - I was able to sneak into his cell and "converse" with him.)
Back on prison, my mindset was that of a visitor. I only had 3 months - not enough time to settle in, so I allowed no real routine for myself other than the mundane dudgery of working every day - long hours at the on-site dairy farm where I milked and tended goats. Ironically, they were treated not much dissimilar to me and other inmates. The goats were too incarcerated, sentenced to a boring life penned in but for 2 times daily where they were herded like prison inmates to chow, to be milked. Some inmates even did what actual guards do and beat and abused them regularly.
Upon release in September, I prepared to move back to the Montbello house, staying a few days in a hotel awaiting the imminent opening of one of rooms. On September 12th, I prepared to jet to the house to pick up the keys from Khalid - minutes before my departure, I got a call from him:
Someone had been shot at the house.
No doubt, I was alarmed but this was life in the hood. This was the life of Black men. This was the life of gun violence and easy access. It was sad, alarming - and not surprising at all.
The victim was Gervais, my roommate. He had apparently been beefing with someone who shot him as he was entering the house (no one else was home at the time). His murderer to this day is unknown.
I finally entered the house with Khalid 3 days later. Gervais' blood was pooled in the family room. The large TV had a bullet hole, but still worked. 2 more bullet holes were in the wall and closet door, marked by numbered stickers left by detectives. We met a crime scene clean-up crew sent by the management company to get a quote. I had the most fascinating conversation with the brother who worked there - he even gave us his number as a hook up to his side hustle, since his company was certainly going to give us a ridiculously high quote.
Days later the blood was cleaned up, the bullet holes patched, the carpet replaced for faux wood flooring, and I moved back in, taking the master bedroom upstairs. Someone put a "hood memorial at the front door - a couple candles and a poured-out can of beer. Due to the news of the shooting, it took a minute for rooms to fill up, so for a couple weeks I had the run of the house. In that short time, I had a fleeting sense of "home", but it was tempered by the reality that soon I'd have housemates, very little personal space, and that I was still in a transitional living situation.
I'd pass over the spot Gervais laid every time I entered into the living room, and every now and then I'd get that prickly, eerie feeling - especially when it was dark and quiet - that his spirit was hanging out. I don't really spook easily and as a Muslim, I don't believe in ghosts, but my unease wasn't for nothing...
My living situation lasted just over a month. More harassment and devilment ensued from the ex, and I was soon on my way back to prison for another 90-day stint - repeating the same rinse-and-return cycle of incarceration that comes with the asinine parole program Colorado has instituted. I came back to the Montbello house at Xanadu Street, this time taking a basement room. The house was full of residents who posed a living situation that, already tenuous, became more and more annoying and unbearable...
...to be continured.
I know this - because I was that inmate, and I am now "that neighbor".
Knowing where you live, where and what you call home is a definitive brick in our self-worth. It is a central question for people from gang members (who will live and die for neighborhoods they own no property in) to immigrants. In the US, a whole segment of people - African Americans - live lives that include grappling with the legacy of slavery and having been cut off from their own heritage.
Before going to prison, I had a home - a house I shared with my now ex-wife and her 4 kids (and sometimes my own). I went away, ushered into the Venus-fly-trap of prison (Black people are primarily the "flies") by her false accusations of domestic violence. The result: for 3 years, I was homeless/incarcerated.
During my incarceration, I railed against the virus of institutionalization. Inmates slowly and almost surely acclimate to prison, calling their small cells and large cellblock "home" - cells themselves are "houses" or "cribs". Sheets are torn to make curtains, Muslim prayer rugs become area rugs, concrete walls are adorned with art and photographs. Not me, though. I put up one picture and kept my cell spartan.
I paroled in March of 2016, homeless - my parole plan was initially to go to Texas where my parents are but I cooled quickly on that idea - after all, my parents' house quit being home when I was 17. My backup plan became to go crash at my little brother's. This short-term plan became even shorter when the property instituted a new policy that any guest after 2 weeks would have to go through a background check.
Background checks are the death knell to any inmate's dream of renting in Colorado. With the influx of people driven by marijuana access and Denver's economic boom, property owners can afford to be discriminating in who they rent to - and felons are the new "untouchables" caste.
So, I had to find a Plan C. Salvation came from a Muslim brother, Khalid, who is based in Colorado Springs. An ex-con who had been working diligently to provide services to formerly incarcerated, he had struck deals with a couple of property managers to provide housing for the formerly incarcerated in the Denver area - I was able to move into a house in Montbello, 4 bedrooms split between up to 8 residents.
 |
| Xanadu Street, Montbello |
The house had not been remodeled much after the prior tenants nor cleaned up very well from the cat urine that saturated the basement, but it was livable - especially so to me and anyone else in comparison to a prison cell. I settled in, however, still with the sense of being transient, still having the drive to find a space that didn't feel like a warehouse. My room was one of the upstairs ones and in comparison to the other 3, small as hell. My roommate was Gervais Spencer, a brother around my age, who worked as a chef and was making moves to start his own BBQ business. We hit it off pretty well.
 |
| Gervais Spencer...RIP |
I was out until June, when I was returned to prison for a 90 day stint for a violating a technical condition of parole (connected in part to harassment from the ex). Khalid packed up my things and stored them in the garage - not before one of the other residents scavenged through my things, however- stealing several watches, my computer, and clothes. (Ironically, I ran into dude in jail on a second 90-day turnaround - I was able to sneak into his cell and "converse" with him.)
Back on prison, my mindset was that of a visitor. I only had 3 months - not enough time to settle in, so I allowed no real routine for myself other than the mundane dudgery of working every day - long hours at the on-site dairy farm where I milked and tended goats. Ironically, they were treated not much dissimilar to me and other inmates. The goats were too incarcerated, sentenced to a boring life penned in but for 2 times daily where they were herded like prison inmates to chow, to be milked. Some inmates even did what actual guards do and beat and abused them regularly.
Upon release in September, I prepared to move back to the Montbello house, staying a few days in a hotel awaiting the imminent opening of one of rooms. On September 12th, I prepared to jet to the house to pick up the keys from Khalid - minutes before my departure, I got a call from him:
Someone had been shot at the house.
No doubt, I was alarmed but this was life in the hood. This was the life of Black men. This was the life of gun violence and easy access. It was sad, alarming - and not surprising at all.
The victim was Gervais, my roommate. He had apparently been beefing with someone who shot him as he was entering the house (no one else was home at the time). His murderer to this day is unknown.
I finally entered the house with Khalid 3 days later. Gervais' blood was pooled in the family room. The large TV had a bullet hole, but still worked. 2 more bullet holes were in the wall and closet door, marked by numbered stickers left by detectives. We met a crime scene clean-up crew sent by the management company to get a quote. I had the most fascinating conversation with the brother who worked there - he even gave us his number as a hook up to his side hustle, since his company was certainly going to give us a ridiculously high quote.
Days later the blood was cleaned up, the bullet holes patched, the carpet replaced for faux wood flooring, and I moved back in, taking the master bedroom upstairs. Someone put a "hood memorial at the front door - a couple candles and a poured-out can of beer. Due to the news of the shooting, it took a minute for rooms to fill up, so for a couple weeks I had the run of the house. In that short time, I had a fleeting sense of "home", but it was tempered by the reality that soon I'd have housemates, very little personal space, and that I was still in a transitional living situation.
 |
| memorial...and blood splatter... |
I'd pass over the spot Gervais laid every time I entered into the living room, and every now and then I'd get that prickly, eerie feeling - especially when it was dark and quiet - that his spirit was hanging out. I don't really spook easily and as a Muslim, I don't believe in ghosts, but my unease wasn't for nothing...
My living situation lasted just over a month. More harassment and devilment ensued from the ex, and I was soon on my way back to prison for another 90-day stint - repeating the same rinse-and-return cycle of incarceration that comes with the asinine parole program Colorado has instituted. I came back to the Montbello house at Xanadu Street, this time taking a basement room. The house was full of residents who posed a living situation that, already tenuous, became more and more annoying and unbearable...
...to be continured.
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