The large manila envelope was stuffed in my mailbox and I pulled it out, noting the red scrawls and the tape that the prison had used to seal it when they returned it. In the yellow light of my kitchen I opened the envelope; inside was a standard prison form with the appropriate box marked: magazines not accepted, inmates must receive magazines directly from the publisher.
I shook my head with a rising sense of irony. The magazine I had included with my letter had an article reviewing a number of recent books, all of which flashed a harsh spotlight on the cancerous prison industry and criticized all aspects of this inhuman American institution. The sense of irony welled up, expanded against the walls of my small, narrow kitchen, slid across and out the window, like a cloud, joining the other invisible clouds of irony blowing across the fair city, the capital of the free world.
It is not enough to punish a man who has committed a wrong by removing his freedom of movement. The severity of the wrongdoing is irrelevant, it seems. Without this most precious freedom - movement - a man can do nothing but be still and wither like a wraith. Without movement, he cannot marry; raise children; gain meaningful employment; see the world. Technology may bring the world to the prison but they are taunting images - holograms.
Being penned in is not enough, no, he must be kept ignorant; deprived of the power of the vote; his spiritual faith even must be regulated. To kill is to become worse than a slave.
I took out a new envelope and sent my brother the letter to the prison address again, this time without the prison system's scathing critique.
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