a new name

Dressed and in my little cell. Number 5.

I’m in “admissions” or “intake” or what I called “the check-in area”.

I realize what it is like to be a dog.

I start to read my book and I looked at my dress uniform. It is blue and not orange like I thought it would be. Down my leg there is what appears to be white paint stains. Or white out?

I looked at the stain and smooth the wrinkled fabric around my knee and horrified I stare at it and it hits me. The pants are BLUE… like blue jeans…

My father, was a political prisoner in Cuba for 13 years. A time he never discusses except for the fact he never will wear a pair of blue jeans. He always said, he wore them enough for one life…in another life. I understand that HIS uniform must have been this type of blue. I am overwhelmed with a need to talk to my Dad.

I shake my head and glance down at my leg again, and it’s clear as day… the white is stenciled letters. Down my leg read my new identifier,

inmate

 

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