Ben Mitchell most recently worked as a corrections educator at the Southern State Correctional Facility in Springfield. He has had a long career as an educational administrator and consultant, and he is publisher of the online magazine Divergents, which celebrates neurodiversity and advocates for those who are neurodivergent. For the story behind this poem, see "I was fired for writing a poem," Viewpoint, Nov. 6.
WESTMINSTER WEST-I remember the first time I saw you - big fella, weird haircut, Medicaid glasses. Lock him up! You could have killed me with one swipe of your left hand, but you were gentle and kind to everyone. If you believe the papers - Bennington Banner - you menaced children with no remorse; "touched her privates" is what they published, but the affidavit only said L and L, not assault. You were drunk and tried to kiss your nieces, you dumb fuck, and they freaked out, but the paper painted you as a monster. Lock him up! They made you go live with your sister in Vernon, and you were not allowed to hang out with your nieces unless that sister was there. But then that sister died. You were left alone in your grief, but your other sister came up from Chicopee, brought her kids to cheer you up, a nice day trip to the beach. Remember the sound of the ocean waves, hot sand, and cool lemonade. But then someone posted a photo on Facebook - wrong sister - Probation and Parole were on you in an instant. Lock him up! They offered you an 11-month minimum for a 10-year bit, and your brother said, "Just take the deal. Eleven months, and you can get on with your life." But you were thrown out of school in fifth grade and could not read, so when they questioned you on the intake, you didn't understand the questions so they reclassified you: "High Risk." So your plea deal for 11 months became seven years on the very first day. Fuck the courts and lawyers and all that bullshit. Lock him up! But did you give up? Never! You did the one thing you could always do: You worked your ass off. You worked with Jeanne on Wilson Reading and wrote letters every day, using your dictionary to spell each word. Even in the pandemic you would meet with her on the phone. You let nothing stand in your way. When classes started up again, you started taking high school classes. You worked and worked and worked, graduating from high school in the spring of '24. I remember the first essay you wrote: How to work with a team of horses. You wrote, "If you want a horse to give you everything he has, you have to show him that he is safe. Once he trusts you, he will give you his best." Then this fall at 55 years, you started your first college class. The last time I saw you, we were looking over your reading for college, and I was so, so proud because you understood all of it. But this world has no mercy for the things it abandons. You got a shin splint jumping down from your bunk. Soon it grew infected, swelled up to the size of a grapefruit. You filled out the slips and waited, but nothing ever came. Lock him up! You borrowed a crutch so you could keep going to school, never complaining for a second. Once when you went to Dartmouth for your diabetes, you asked the doc to look at your foot, and he freaked out. He said you needed to be hospitalized, confined to bed with an antibiotic IV and intensive care nurses. But no, it wasn't on your list of approved medications, so they sent you back to the unit, adding another pill to your list. Lock him up! Now they say it was a heart attack that killed you, but anyone who saw your foot knows what stopped your heart. Your brother sued to let you go home on a medical furlough, but the state said, "Fuck you, Gary." Lock him up! Two weeks later, you were dead. I am so sorry, Gary. I wish I did something. Anything. I told you to fill out a slip. Trust the system, and it killed you. You deserved better. Balls got dropped. No one could make a decision, so an 11-month deal turned into eight years, followed by execution. Lock him up! So now the only thing anyone will know about you is the bullshit they wrote to sell that stupid paper. Lock him up! But we know, Gary. We fucking know.
This Voices Poem was submitted to The Commons.
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