From Morehouse to Louisiana State Prison: Roy’s Tragic Fall and the Volvo Window Bursting Scene

The Mental Impact of Prison Culture
‎”Boys, some of them, talked about how when you find out a girl has done you wrong, you get her in bed one more time for one last angry fucking. I was never into beating somebody up with my dick, but I considered it last night for a flash of an instant. I think that’s what prison did to me. It made me a person who would even entertain such a thought.”
A House No Longer a Home: Marriage After Incarceration
‎The way to the garage is downstairs and then through the laundry room, where a stainless-steel washer and dryer hummed, modern and efficient. I entered the garage and flipped a switch, raising the large paneled door. The metal-on-metal noise made me swallow hard. When we first were married, **Celestial** said that the screech of the garage door made her smile because it meant that I was home from work. In those days, we had been right in there, together on all the levels—**mental, spiritual, and physical health in marriage**. But now, it’s like she doesn’t even know me. Or even worse, it’s like she never knew me. What about this, Walter? Nobody prepared me for this **emotional trauma**.
‎ The Contrast of Normalcy: Christmas and Community
‎The light of the day brightened the space a little bit. It was **Christmas Eve**, regardless of what was happening to me. Across the street, a stylish woman moved a dozen poinsettias onto the porch. Kitty-corner, lightbulb candelabras winked on and off. In the bright of day, I could barely make out the bulbs, but when I squinted, there they were. Directly in my view was that tree that Celestial tended like a pet. It’s not like I couldn’t appreciate vegetation. When I was a boy, I was partial to a pecan tree, but for a reason. It dropped premium nuts that sold for a dollar a sack. Olive cared for a stand of crape myrtles in her backyard because she delighted in butterflies and blossoms. It was different.
Reclaiming Identity: Personal Property and “Personal Effects”
‎Turning my attention back to the great indoors, I saw that the garage was well maintained, and I figured this was Dre’s doing. He was always organized. The garage had a **showroom interior design** vibe to it, too clean for anything to actually have been used. When I lived here, you could smell the dirt on the shovel, the gas in the mower, and the broken-twig scent on the clippers. Now each tool was hung on a peg, polished like she was trying to sell it. Everything was labeled, like you needed a little tag to tell you what an axe was.Along the south-facing wall was a cluster of **cardboard boxes**. Clear block letters: *roy h., misc.* I would have preferred to see only my name, Roy. Or *Roy’s stuff*. Even *Roy’s shit* would have been a little more personal. When I left the **prison system**, they gave me a paper sack labeled **Hamilton, Roy O. personal effects**. In that bag was everything I had on me when I went in, minus a heavy pocketknife that belonged to **Big Roy’s** uncle and namesake, the first Roy. Now I was looking at six or seven not-big boxes. All of them could easily fit in the Chrysler. Smarter men, like Big Roy or Walter, would load it all up and hit the highway. But no, not me. I hauled the stack of boxes out and sat them on the half-circular.
The Struggle of Reclaiming Personal Property
‎”Bench at the base of Old Hickey. Returning to the garage, I searched for something to cut the packing tape, but unless I was willing to use a double-sided axe, there was nothing. I made do with my keys, the very same ones that opened the front door, giving me a bellyful of false hope.The first box contained everything that had been in my top dresser drawer. Things weren’t arranged in any kind of order, like she and Andre had opened up the box, pulled the drawer, and poured everything in. A small bottle of Cool Water **cologne for men** was packed along with a few buckled snapshots from my childhood and some pictures of Celestial and me, taken at the beginning. Why wouldn’t she at least save the photos? At the bottom of the box were the seedy remnants of a dime bag of weed. In another carton I found my **college diploma**, safe in its leather case, which I appreciated. But an **egg timer** and half-empty **prescription for antibiotics**? I didn’t see the logic in it all. A glass paperweight was cushioned in a purple-and-gold sweater, which I pulled over my head. It smelled like a **thrift store**, but I was glad to have something between me and the chill.”
‎ The Visual of “Ghetto Scenes” and Suburban Perceptions
‎”I didn’t care about any of this stuff anymore, but I couldn’t stop myself from ripping open box after box, pouring the contents out on the grass and, sifting through, hunting for a tiny chip of bone. Looking at the house, I noticed some movement at the window. I imagined Celestial peeking out. Over my shoulder, I felt the eyes of the lady across the street. There was a time when I knew her name.I waved, hoping that she wasn’t getting antsy, thinking of **calling the police**, because a close encounter with **law enforcement** was the last thing I needed. She waved back, placed a stack of envelopes in her mailbox, and lifted the red flag. Between Big Roy’s **Chrysler** riding up on the curb and me out here ripping open boxes and trash flying everywhere, it must be the type of ghetto scene they are not familiar with on Lynn Valley Road. ‘Merry Christmas,’ I called, and offered another wave. This seemed to put her at ease but not enough that she went back into her house.”
A Mother’s Letter: The Final Discovery
‎”HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE final box included a **mason jar** containing bicentennial quarters that had been with me since I was six, along with a couple of stray keys, but I didn’t find my original tooth. I ran my fingers under the cardboard flap in case it was hiding there, but what I found instead was a pale pink envelope bearing my mother’s schoolgirl writing in sky-blue ink. I sat down on the cold wooden bench and unfolded the page inside.*Dear Roy,*
‎*I am putting this in writing so that you can take this message to heart and not cause confusion with backtalk because you are not going to like what I have to say. So here it…*”
The Pride of a Mother and the Power of Prayer
‎”Is. First, I want to say that I am very proud of you. I may be too proud. There are many at Christ the King who are tired of hearing me talk about you because so many of their youngsters are not doing well. Boys are in **jail or correctional facilities** or headed that way and the girls all have babies. This is not true for everyone, but it’s true enough for there to be a spring of jealousy and envy against me and mine. This is why I pray a **prayer of protection** for you every single night.”
Financial Independence and Retirement Planning
‎”I am happy to hear that you have found someone that you want to marry. You know I have always wanted to be a grandmother (tho I hope I look too young to be a “granny”). You do not ever have to worry about **taking care of your father** and me. We have set aside money since the beginning so that we can manage our **bills in old age** through **smart estate planning**. So do not think that what I have to say has anything to do with any type of **money consideration** or **financial debt**.”
Relationship Advice: Choosing the Right Spouse
‎”What I want to ask you is if you are sure that she is the woman for you. Is she the wife for the real person who you are? How can you know if you have not even brought her to Eloe to meet your father and me? I know that you have been spending time with her family and you are very impressed by them, but we need to meet her, too. So come pay us a visit. I promise that we’ll make everything look nice, and I also promise that I will behave.”
‎ Intuition, Signs, and Spiritual Wellness
‎”Roy, I cannot say an ill word against a woman that I have not met, but my spirit is troubled. Your father says that I do not want you to grow up. He points out that a lot of spirits were troubled when him and myself “jumped the broom.” But I would not be your caring mother if I didn’t tell you that my dreams have come to me again. I know you don’t believe in signs, so I am not going to tell you the nitty-gritty. But I am so worried about you, son.Your father could be right. I admit to holding you a little too close. Maybe when I meet Celeste I’ll rest easy again. She does sound nice from what you say. I hope her parents won’t think your father and me are a couple of little country mice. Read this letter three times before you tell me what you think. I am also including a **prayer card**, and it would do you some good to **pray on this every night**. Get on your knees when you talk to the Lord. Do not call yourself praying by lying in the bed thinking. Thinking and **meditation and prayer** are two different things, and for something this important, you need prayer.Your loving mother,”
‎ The Burden of Maternal Protection
‎”I folded the letter and slid it into my pants pocket. The breeze bit, but my body was sweaty. My mama tried to warn me, tried to save me. But from what? At first, she was always trying to save me from two things—**prison and criminal charges** and fast-tail girls. When I finished high school without catching a charge or getting anyone pregnant, she felt like her work was done. Putting me on that Trailways bus to Atlanta with those three brand-new suitcases, she held up her fists, crowing, “We did it!” I can’t say she worried about me again until I told her I was getting married.”
‎ The State of Louisiana vs. Personal Destiny
‎”I sat myself down on the bench to read the letter again. I didn’t believe in Olive’s “prophetic dreams”; besides, it wasn’t Celestial that was my undoing, it was the **State of Louisiana** and the **justice system**. Still, I took some comfort in the tenderness lacing my mama’s words, but I was cut to the quick remembering how I’d reacted all those years ago. I responded, hemming and hawing, but I was a hit dog, hollering. *Don’t be ashamed of us*, she said without saying.I read the letter over again and again, each word a lash. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I slid it back into my pocket and looked at the mess I’d made with the boxes. Something as small as a bottom tooth could be easily lost among the rubble, easily hidden between blades of grass. Maybe it was only fitting that I move into this uncertain future without it. The grave robbers of the next millennium would find me incomplete for all eternity, the story of my life there in my jaw.”
‎ Property Damage and the Breaking Point
‎”I swear to God my plan was to leave right then. I would gas up **Big Roy’s Chrysler** and get back on the highway, taking nothing with me but my mama’s letter. But then I thought I spotted a **Wilson tennis racket** in the garage. It had been expensive, and more important, it was mine. Maybe I would give it to Big Roy; when I was little we used to hit tennis balls at the rec center in town. I walked up the sand-white driveway, thinking of Davina and what Celestial told her after **Olive’s funeral and memorial services**. “Georgia,” I called to the air, “you are not the only one who’s a terrible person.”I scanned the garage wall. Sure enough, the racket dangled from a little hook. I pulled it down and found it to be warped with age and disuse. When I bought this racket, it was the finest to be had in all of **Hilton Head luxury resorts**. Now it was reduced to corroding metal and catgut. The grip had gone gummy, but I mimed my backhand, butting up against the bumper of **Celestial’s car**.The first blow was an accident. The second, third, and fourth were more purposeful, resulting in **auto body damage**. The **car alarm** squealed in protest, but I didn’t stop until Celestial entered the garage with her **designer bag** on her shoulder and her keys in her hand. “Honey, what are you doing?” She used a little remote to silence the alarm. “You okay?””
‎ The Struggle for Dignity and Mental Health
‎”The pity in her voice scraped over my skin. “I’m not okay. How am I supposed to be okay?” She shook her head, and again there was that soft sadness. I have never struck a woman. Never have I wanted to. But at that moment, my hand itched to slap all that concern off her lovely face.“Roy,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”She knew full well what I wanted her to do. It wasn’t that complicated. I wanted her to be a proper wife and provide a place for me in my own home. I wanted her to wait for me like women have been waiting since before Jesus. She kept talking, but I didn’t have any patience for damp cheeks or noise about how she tried.“Try spending some time as a special guest of the **State of Louisiana**. Try that. How hard could it be to stay off your back for five years? How hard could it be to make a tired man feel welcome? I picked soybeans when I was in **prison**. I have a **degree from Morehouse College** and I’m working the land like my great-great-granddaddy. So don’t tell me about how you tried.””
‎ Escalating Conflict and Automotive Damage
‎”She was sniffling when I attacked the car again. The tennis racket wasn’t much match for the **Volvo S60**. I couldn’t even bust out the windows. I did get the **car alarm system** to wail, but Celestial silenced it immediately.“Roy, stop it,” she said, sighing like an exhausted mother. “Set down that tennis racket.”“I’m not your child,” I said. “I’m a grown man. Why can’t you talk to me like I’m a man?” I couldn’t stop seeing myself through her eyes: hot and funky in my **Walmart discount clothes** and high school sweater and swinging a raggedy tennis racket like some kind of weapon. I dropped it to the floor.”
‎ The Axe and the Shattered Window: Legal and Physical Risks
‎”“Can you please calm down?”
‎I scanned the neatly labeled rows of **hand tools**, hoping to find a **heavy wrench** or a **hammer** that I could use to bust out every window on that vehicle. But there, just at arm’s length, was the **double-sided axe** and I liked the look of it. Lo and behold, as soon as I got my hand around that thick wooden handle, the room leaned in a different direction.Celestial sucked in her breath, and there was raw fear on her face. This grated, too, but it was better than her pity. I lifted the axe as best as I could in that cramped space between the **Volvo** and the garage wall. The window burst, sending **tempered safety glass** everywhere. But even though she was terrified, Celestial had the presence of mind to again turn off the alarm, keeping things quiet.”
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