A life sentence
As I drove, I passed various road signs with disparate faces of both warnings and safety measures. A John Denver classic, “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” was re-imagined as I crossed two-way and single roads to home on an exhausting Friday afternoon. I imagined myself as a bird escaping from the stout bars of the cage, finally free when I was not. I just got out of a small box to justify my liberation in a larger cage—a habitat created to test humans, and humanity—we often call life.
Trust me when I say I was five when I was first sent to jail. Like any other young prisoner, my mind was a perfect tabula rasa. I had no complete idea of what in the world was happening, I just followed the instructions though what I only had in mind was Disneyland. The jail was so vast that it could accommodate thousands of prisoners in our town and nearby cities.
Believe me when I say that my parents were the very people who sent me to jail—a place, they believe, would make me a well-grown individual. I was thrown at the first cell and instructed to transfer to another cell after a year if, only if, I did not behave well. We were tortured and forced to perform tasks—count the animals, color the fruits and if we failed, we were punished; no, we did not count more animals or color more fruits but wrote more of our names—full names, repeatedly, on a whole sheet of paper.
The same routine was done every day, for seven years, excluding summers. I spent that long before we were sent to the higher jail, for another six years. The higher the level, the harder it got. Our consistency was tested, time was strictly monitored, the judgment was more inhumane, and we were measured with prejudice. It was all the exact opposite of the fair-and-square system of the lords, the bosses, and the authorities that prevailed. The favorites ruled.
It all turned out to be the most biased six years of my life, so far. Having been through easeless unreasonable opinions, insensitive actions, and two-faced people, it was exasperating to be bombarded by a classic cliché question: Why is life so unfair?
Surprisingly, the six-year prejudice was, at least, an unforgettable occurrence—an experience I consider both good and bad because I, absolutely, and ultimately learned from it. Not to change my mind, when I was five when all was just a blank sheet except the time, I thought that the world was a huge playground, I still get disrupted by society’s random judgment. I felt like every day was a death threat, opening my eyes in the morning, knowing that I would walk the streets, display myself to the public, and absorb everyone’s unjust opinions. These happened to me in the highest level of jail—the most liberated prisoners yet the most rigorous ones.
I never doubted my bravery. The life I will have in the last jail was foreshadowed by my experiences in the pre-jail—a place that served as my training ground for 13 years. I entered a specialized jail, training people to manage and guard the cells and their prisoners. I did not know if I should have the same feeling I had when I was five when all was just a tabula rasa. I, again, had no idea of the decisions I—with a bit of my parents’ guidance—made.
The system has changed the years of imprisonment, they added another two years, which placed me in another dilemma of how I will survive additional years. This time, there was special treatment for other prisoners. They had money to make things easier for them inside the prison which I didn’t. I struggled but eventually got used to it and learned to adapt to the prison. After our sentence, I received recognition for doing well but so did those prisoners who had money. Worse, they had more recognition. I guess that’s what money can do.
I thought being jailed would end after 12 years but another four years were added to my sentence.
Now, I am required to be nurtured to be good and skillful in prison. They trained all prisoners even with sleepless nights and the pain of tears. No choice but to follow. That is what the system is forcing prisoners to do. Then days become months, months to years, and I have finally served my sentence in jail. Finally, I am freed. But I am not.
In 16 years of jail time, I thought I learned a lot. But it is like being confined in a box trying to master what the system imposes and the challenges that life offers after. It is a big world after all. I feel like I am just relocated to a bigger jail where the system still dictates all the actions you are to take.
But I guess life is all about taking risks, or perhaps, life is risk itself?
I am already used to jail, of becoming a prisoner. The 23 years of my life being spent in jail is a choice.
I will be spending my whole life in jail, I mean school—a place for the most innocent prisoners. I mean, learners.
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Edsel Harry R. Turda, 24, is a senior high school teacher with the Department of Education Laoag City.
