Miles

My mother used to tell me that I came into this world with two strikes against me as a Black boy,

and that before I turned 18, I would either be dead or in jail. She said this at least three times a week from the earliest I could remember, but I never paid attention. By the time I was 15 years old, I was incarcerated. 

While in prison, I sat there and thought, "what was she talking about?" This led me to attending college while inside, where I learned about social inequities—with Blacks, with women—it's a lot. I was learning new concepts and was able to put a word to a feeling, but it started to make me angry and bitter. I didn't like the feeling of being bitter over something I can't control, because this has been happening since long before I came into this world, and obviously, it's going to continue happening long after I'm out. The world's trauma affected my mother, which then affected me. So, what can I do now to change myself, to change my perspective? This is where my curiosity came into play.

I started to view the world's trauma as Dante's Inferno, where each level has its own issues and its own horrors. My life has been an exploration of these different levels, starting with a mother who didn't like me. I don't know why. I'm assuming it had something to do with my pops, who I never met because he died before I was born, but it was apparent as soon as I started walking, talking, and understanding that she did not like me. There was just no love, no light. I was tolerated. 

Even among family members, I felt exiled, and then at the age of five, I was placed into foster care after my mother assaulted me. I don't remember what happened because I blacked out, but one moment I was up in the air. The next moment, a teacher wakes me up in school, takes me outside the classroom, and says, "I need you to lift your shirt." I'm a child. I don't know what's going on, but when I looked down, I had so many bruises and cuts. Immediately, school safety came, the ambulance came, and that was the last time I saw my mom for a while.

In the group home, I had to fight for everything. I was two feet tall fighting teens and young adults. I always carried a little kitchen knife, and a spoon if I could get my hands on one. It was extremely rough. I would never want anybody to go through that, but these experiences shaped how I approach situations. Now, I always look for safety first—where are the doors and windows? Who is sitting where? After a year in the group home, I was placed in some lady's home. She was a nice lady. Her son, though, was a demon. He was in his twenties, a bully, and we fought a lot, but I survived that. 

At eleven years old, I was returned home, and it was still there—I was not wanted, and my mother went right back into the old routine. Somebody was going to get hurt, and this time it wasn't going to be me, so I left. But what happens when you're young, you don't have a job, and you're supposed to be in school most of the day? What happens? I ended up couch surfing for a while, and I had to support myself.

When I look back at little Miles, knowing what he's about to go through, yet I can't do anything about it, it hurts. I think we all want to see our youngest selves in better positions, but I have to let him go through all of this, and I can't tell him to not go a certain way. The reality, however, is that we all have to go through things, I'm assuming. The only way to live in this world is to explore it, and by exploring it, you will get hurt. For little Miles, he ended up serving 18 years on an innocence case. 

People often ask me how it was on the inside. Put yourself in a bathroom, 24/7. Can't come out. No TV, no cell phone. Would you do that as an experiment for yourself? Lock yourself in the bathroom for 5 hours then. No window. The only thing you can use is the toilet and the sink. Deprivation. Within the first fifteen minutes, you'll start thinking about everything you've ever gone through in life. It'll come up. How will you deal with your own self, your memories when you can't escape them? How will you deal with your physical reality? You gotta figure out a way, and it's hard. 

My experience allowed me to see the similarities between little Miles and the creatures at the Bronx Zoo. All I see is them caged after going through the Criminal Justice System. I want to walk by the cages and say, "Hey giraffe, I get it. I get it." I want to pay homage because I understand. I must pay homage. Those animals are there all day long with people ogling them. What would they do if the gates were open? Would they know what to do? If they don't know, it's going to be a rough life.

Since I spent my formative years in prison, I really don't know how to be social. Even before prison, I was a loner, so I miss a lot of social cues, completely miss them. Maybe it's my approach. Maybe I'm looking at something as black and white when there's a lot of gray area. Whatever it is, though, I'm having fun. I'm enjoying all these little lessons, these little rejections. I’ve set my short-term goals—a car, a house, and a good job; and when I have the presence of mind, I want to find a wife.

I still don't know what's out there in the world. This is why I'm exploring. You only have one life to live, and I don't want my past to be the reason I'm bitter in the future. Trauma can have a really strong grip, and I've seen people that just can't see past the trauma, but I'm taking the elevator on the other side of Dante's Inferno, and I'm going upstairs. I'm letting go of the cesspool of everything that's happened in this world. Let the traumatized world have its space. I'm stepping away from it. I'm letting go of the inhumanity and the misconceptions of me as a person, as a Black man. I'm done. Would I change anything? Maybe. But that's hindsight, and you really can't change anything with hindsight. 

I've seen it. I've been through it. I'm good. I'm good.

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Miles’ Interview
Written by Antoinette Cooper