On Birthdays

I stopped celebrating my birthday in prison. It felt like an absurd and pointless ritual that belonged to the outside world. I was facing more years inside than I’d been alive so marking the passage of time wasn’t something to celebrate. I turned 21 in prison, with no rousing cheers for a first legal drink. Not even prison hooch, though my cellmates did attempt to ferment pineapple juice with pizza yeast in a two-liter water bottle hidden behind the toilet.

Just five days prior, I’d passed my first Fourth of July in prison more homesick than ever. I wasn’t even in the mood to go outside for “aria” and walk around in circles under the hot July sun, though it had become the highlight of my days. Besides, the shower in my cell broke and I had to be in my cell for the guards to come fix it. The usual male guard in charge of maintenance arrived and, as per usual, he was friendly, chatty. “How you doing? Nice day out, huh?” But when I invited him inside and tried to explain the shower proble…