Thanksgiving Isn’t Over Yet

https://massreview.org/issue/volume-66-issue-4/

When I think of the holiday season, I think of family and food. As a child, my mother did everything she could to bring our family together under one roof to enjoy her good home cooking. No matter how far apart the members of my family drifted over the years, the holidays—with its promise of good company and my mother's famous, slow cooked pork shoulder—always brought us back together, even if only for the moment. After my imprisonment, this custom of surrounding myself with loved ones and enjoying good food together during the holidays endured. Whether I spent my holidays in solitary confinement saving up my daily desserts to enjoy a sweet treat or in population getting special ingredients in my package to make a full course meal, I have always tried to make these days special.

When I was released from the box and transferred to Elmira Correctional facility on November 17th, 2023, I was excited by the idea of being in population for the holidays. Just six days before Thanksgiving, I knew I had to work quickly if I wanted to get a large group of my brothers together to enjoy a meal together on that day. With no time to spare, I asked one of the porters who had access to the phone to call my wife and request a package.

A few minutes later, I heard the porter calling to me from down the company as he made his way to my cell, “Yoooo!! Magik!! This Thanksgiving is about to be lit!”

I knew he would be in front of me in seconds, but the excitement in his voice was contagious. Jumping out of bed, I pulled out my little handheld mirror and ran to my gate. Sticking my hand and mirror in between the bars of my cell, I was able to watch him in the reflection as he power walked down the company toward me with a huge smile on his face. Still talking before he even made it to my cell, he started informing me that my package, including four boneless beef ribs, broccoli, peppers, and cheese, was scheduled to arrive on Monday, four days before Thanksgiving.

Given the parameters of Directive 4911A, which states that packages must be processed and delivered to prisoners within 72 hours of arrival, I felt pretty confident that our Thanksgiving would be special. Even if I received the package at the end of that seventy-two hour mark on Thanksgiving day, there would still be enough time to put together a delicious meal for my brothers and me.

There were only two men in my block with whom I was close—my longtime friends Jah and Rover—but Jah was close to a couple of other guys in our block and I had made a new friend on the transit ride, so we consolidated our friend group. Our new collective of six friends came together and started brainstorming our holiday meal. That entire weekend, my brothers and I made plans and also considered back up plans. With all of us being recently released from the box, we didn't have much food to work with, other than peanut butter and cans of soup some guys sent to the block for us. We were really going to need my package if we wanted a special meal.

Monday came and went with my wife confirming that my package arrived on schedule.

Tuesday and Wednesday came and went with no mention of my package.

By Thursday morning, we were beginning to get nervous.

​By Thursday afternoon, we pretty much gave up hope.

Laying in my bed on my deflated green mattress, I felt defeated. Trying to find an escape from my pitiful Thanksgiving, I stared at my ceiling, thinking about what each of my family members might have been doing. In the days leading up to the holiday, each of my loved ones shared their plans with me, so it was easy to conjure up a mental image of the entire scene in my head: the long dining room table covered with a crisp white cloth, the pork shoulder and turkey my mother made placed prominently in the middle of the table, the macaroni and cheese my wife contributed opposite the macaroni salad my sister made, and all of my loved ones sitting and moving around the table while they talked, laughed, and ate.

For a moment, it felt like I was there, a silent observer, enjoying the energy that circulated throughout my family. A moment later, I was back in my cell, returned to my unfortunate reality by my brother, Jah, who yelled, "Magik! Goonies never say die!!"

I smirked when I heard him employ a quote from the movie we watched when we were young and continued to reference throughout our adolescence and adulthood when we were in need of a little encouragement in the face of adversity. I knew he was trying to boost my morale, and I really appreciated his effort, but his words weren't enough to fill the void in my heart—or my stomach. Still, I answered, trying not to sound too pathetic and depressed.

"It is what it is bro. Our Christmas will be lit."

"Thanksgiving isn't over yet," he responded, managing to somehow sound confident that this day would get better.

​I had already lost faith, so I closed my eyes and returned to my fantasy Thanksgiving. Only a few moments later, while I was waiting for my imaginary dinner to be served, some movement on the other side of the green blanket I had hanging over my cell bars to provide some privacy brought me back to my reality. Something was placed on my slot: a platform in the middle of a cell gate reserved for feeding prisoners whom the officers don't want to leave their cell. I moved my curtain to see what it was, and I noticed a bowl of food. Assuming it was a mistake, I left it there, knowing the porter would come back to pick it up when he realized his error. I laid back down ready to return to my reverie when Jah called down to me again, "Magik! Was that a touch?!"

​Confused, I stood frozen for a second. In the silence left behind by my uncertainty, Rove joined the conversation, “Yoooo!! He can't even talk! He's already knocking that down!!"

I heard the laughs of Kevin and some of my other brothers, and I started making my way to the gate. Still skeptical, I looked down in amazement at the bowl of fried mackerel, macaroni and cheese, and biscuits that was sitting on my slot. After what felt like a long time, I finally responded, "Touchdown bro. How the hell did you put this together for us?!"

​"It doesn't even matter bro. I just hope you guys enjoy everything."

​He was right. And we did enjoy everything.

One week later, I was finally called for my package. By then, the ribs, broccoli, and peppers were all spoiled, and the officers had thrown it out before I got to the package room. The only thing left was the cheese. But, at that point, it didn't matter: Thanksgiving was a success.

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