Enrique Bautista is an incarcerated person at Snake River Correctional Institution in Eastern Oregon. He is a periodic contributor to Street Roots.
Dec. 22. It is the day after my birthday. I am now 35 years old. I am a 35-year-old man. Wow!
It feels like only yesterday I was just another 18-year-old kid with a chip on his shoulder coming into the system. With 20-something years to serve, mad at the world, full of hate and frustration.
Everything was always the same: my days, weeks and months. Everything was always exactly the same. Every birthday felt just like the one before, probably because they were.
No cake, no presents and hundreds of miles away from home. Just another year down, one less to do and many, many more to go. Or, like the old timers used to say back then, “One year older, one year wiser, one year closer to the gate.” Yeah, whatever. That’s what I used to think.
For a while the years would just pass by uneventfully, right in front of me, one melting into the next. And suddenly what do you know? It was that meaningless 24-hour day again. My birthday.
When I first came to prison, I used to feel as if acknowledging my birthday made me weak. That was probably because I wanted to prepare myself to not be disappointed like a lot of people, and because I guess I wanted to avoid negativity at all cost.
I used to see people being themselves one day, and then next day they were completely different. Quiet. Withdrawn, head down, etc. What’s wrong with him? “Oh, it’s his birthday. No one came to visit!” I used to be like, “Wow, really?”
You can’t be weak in a place like this so I trained myself to not care too much about my birthday or birthdays in general. Not only that, what do you do when you’re in the hole by yourself, in a cell the size of a small closet? There’s nothing you can do!
Anyhow, I am blessed to have full support and love of my family. My wife, my daughter and my mother. They always send me greeting cards, money on my account, letters and well wishes. Ha, even the birthday song if we’re talking on the phone.
FURTHER READING: My daughter: An essay by Enrique Bautista
And most important of all, they would drive 400 miles just to give me a brief hug and wish me a happy b-day, and to sit across from me at a pre-designated area in the visiting room for a couple of hours, eating junk food from a vending machine. Enjoying each other’s company.
Recently Snake River Correctional Institution started their new thing where we inmates can purchase a small 9-inch cake once or twice a month. It has to be ordered at least one week before the date of the sale. It is delivered to the visiting room and it can only be shared with one’s own visitors. It is not a birthday cake and it is also not sold specifically for one’s birthday, but it is nice to be allowed to do something different. The cakes are $8.00.
I’ve spent countless birthdays in the hole and IMU (Intensive Management Unit, another form of isolated segregation) by myself. So something like that, out of the norm, would be really nice.
FURTHER READING: An inmate's perspective on solitary confinement
About nine years ago at Oregon State Penitentiary, my wife and daughter came to visit on my birthday. It was really special because that day they were there first, so when I got there my wife had bought all kinds of junk food, soda, chips, candy bars, etc. But there was also a bear claw on a honey bun sitting on the little table there along with the rest of the junk food. She had taken a paper napkin and twisted it up to make it look like a candle and the whole thing became my birthday cake. Wow. I felt so happy and proud, honored and special. I kissed my wife. I hugged my daughter and we all sat down to enjoy our visit.
Then I felt a weird vibe. I felt like everyone was watching me. There are usually two officers in charge of the visiting room. That day Officer Price was working that area of the visiting room (there are two areas). I respect Officer Price. He is by the book but super respectful and understanding. Anyway, he gave me a funny look and he smiled then he looked at my wife so in my head I was like, waaait a minute! What’s going on here?
All of a sudden the entire visiting room erupted in the most uncoordinated but beautiful birthday song ever, and it was for me! Wow! Was I embarrassed? It turns out my wife had asked Officer Price if she could ask people to sing happy birthday for me, and every visitor and inmate said yes. That became my most memorable birthday.
The Department of Corrections does not celebrate anyone’s birthday, but people like Officer Price get how special and important it can be for some of us. All the officers rotate every six months so after that six-month period, there were no more celebrations like that.
Other ways that people in here celebrate is with a drawing or a handmade card. It could be something funny or something very cool. Then everyone that knows you signs it, wishing you a happy birthday. Some people write something stupid/funny or something uplifting, like a motivational quote, or just something meaningful, which is cool. I’ve gotten quite a few of those.
Also, there is food some people make. Some type of “cheesecake,” burritos or nachos out of stuff purchased from canteen. Some people like to give presents like a magazine, a pack of socks, boxers, coffee or hygiene items.
Other people think it’s funny to punch someone in the arm on their b-day, or to give them a Charlie horse – some dudes call each other brother and they say, “I love you bro” a lot, they even hug and really spend time together taking pictures and hanging out.
As you can see, everyone does it a different way.
It is against the rules to horseplay, like punching and Charlie horses. They could send you to the hole for that. Sharing food and personal items is also prohibited. Making food like that for a group of people is also not allowed. I’ve seen officers make people dump all their food in the trash.
Thinking back now, I would dare to guess that it was back in the year 2008, when I turned 25 years old, that I became convinced that every year was in fact putting me closer to being free and farther away from here. It was simple math and common sense. Hmmm. Who would’ve thunk?
December became my point of reference. With each birthday, I get a little bit older but also a little bit closer to being released from the imaginary land. The land of the forgotten or, the “Land of the Losers” as I playfully call it sometimes.
Now, speaking for myself here. I can honestly say that I’m far from being a loser and in spite of being surrounded by second, third, fifth, even seventh-time losers. Like so many others, this is my first time. Yet it has been almost 17 years since the new chapter in my life behind bars began.
I will be in my 40s when it ends and I finally graduate from the huge learning center, which is what I’ve chosen to view this prison, this college with strict codes of conduct and rules. Where if you fail to learn, you stay forever. This classroom with walls of opportunity and frustration more than anything.
When I leave this place, there will be plenty for me to pack up. Mental and emotional baggage? PTSD? And a mind that’s institutionalized and incapable of functioning according to today’s standards in society? Nope! Not at all!
On the contrary I will only take my most precious possessions. Whole encyclopedias and files full of knowledge and important information on a plethora of subjects. An endless supply of first and second-hand experience but most importantly, an intense desire not to let any of it go to waste.
Last night I went to bed thinking about all of this because my birthday no longer represents a meaningless nothing to me. This morning I woke up wondering and pondering. What exactly have I learned, and what exactly can I do with the little bit I know?
Although I was practically raised in the belly of the beast, I was able to mature without losing my youthful spirit, which is rare in a place like this. Most men here are not that fortunate, they either don’t mature at all or they simply never find a reason to love life. And their days are lived in a constant state of despair and bitterness, thinking that that’s what it means to be a grown-up here in prison.
The more I think about it and the older I get, I realize more and more that change is ubiquitous. It was there when I came to prison, just waiting for me to discover it, and it is here and now.
As I’m writing this down, my cellmate Boxer Robin Harbuck looks on and sees that I am almost done with “whatever I’ve been working on.” He asks about it and I tell him. He asks about Street Roots and I tell him about that as well. Soon enough, we’re having a deep conversation about change and it is then that I realize that in a strange way, when I look at my homeboy here, I’m seeing myself. And when we talk, we leave all this prison stuff behind. In conversation occasionally we look back but only because without the past, there is no future. I’m a 35-year-old man, wow!
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