Prison is a harvest of depression’s bruised fruits.

A man does not share his gloom, lest a cellmate will share back.  Confined for nearly three months in two different prisons in Arizona and California, I listened to no venting. I absorbed stoicism that was as common as sweat.

We, nonetheless, found relief.  Individuals close to me made the trip to talk. But many men had no one.

Once a day, prisoners were released to for an hour to an outdoor basketball court.  The sunshine and cotton fields were a tonic. All of the Indians in  our cell block could ball, even the ones built like vending machines.

Cowboy is polished on offense and defense. He rode bulls at Indian rodeos as a young man and has no upper teeth. Could have been a bull. Could have been meth. I didn’t ask; I wasn’t his dentist. We bump fists every day and he always asks: “ You ok? ”

I’m ok.

Another man spreads out a towel near the baskets. With long black hair caught in the wind, he sings Navajo songs with melodies that lance the sepsis of our convicted souls.

Who is this fellow?

He is a felon. He is anguished. He is confessed.

When he was 26, a 14 year old girl hit upon him, says Samuel Neskie Begay.

This is not hard to believe.

An accomplished singer even as a child, he is a handsome, charismatic young man . . . and, admittedly weak.

He succumbed to the young teenager.

Afterwards, he judged himself.

He judged himself shamed.

Then he did  something remarkable

“I went to the authorities.”

The tribal police ignored him.

“I tried five times. I kept going back.”

The child said Samuel was lying.

“She denied knowing me. I showed the police our Facebook conversations.”

He explains himself.

“I was traumatized,” said Begay.

“They gave me two years and five years probation. I got released in 2018.”

He did his bid without incident, but probation was problematic.

He had an ankle monitor that tracked his whereabouts and a list of rules fit for a Charles Dickens orphanage.

He wasn’t allowed to drink.

He drank.

He would call his probation officer.

“I’m drinking.”

He favored beer or cheap vodka.

As he struggled, he kept a hold of one thought: “They can never take away my prayer. I was one of the ones that picked up songs very fast. My song, my prayers stay with me. That’s what my grandmother gave to me.”

She instructed him.

“This is who you are,” she told me. “This is the most important part of life. You have four clans: Big water/ To’tsonii; Red Sand Flowing into the Creek Tah’chiinii/ Deer water bit-bitoonii/ Salt Ashit’ny.

“I was raised in the Native American Church Way. I was one of the ones that picked up songs fast. I sang in the Sioux style, high pitched and dragged out. I listened to cassette tapes and the CDs. I watched Vardell Phrimox on Youtube.”

Later church ceremonies became more complicated.

“A licensed road man would bring peyote from Texas. We mushed it with sweet root . . . you have to be humble with it. The ceremony is overnight.”

While he was singing and dancing, there were empty spots reserved for holy people.

During his journey, Sam fathered four children with two women: oldest son Jonah, second son Kymiann, third child Lillian, youngest boy Limarian.

His wife, Ashonique waits for his release.

A Black woman, the two of them are learning about each others’ cultures.

“She used to do hospice care under the table. Now she is at Fry’s (supermarket) in her first job on payroll. She wants always to be together. We are united around our home. She is looking forward to her own children.”

I inquire: How did he meet Ashonique?

They met at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

This is the first joyful experience I’ve ever heard involving the notorious DMV, a viscous sludge pot never linked to . . . romance.

And if there is a glim at the DMV, is there hope for Sam when he gets out?

It is a challenge.

When he was out before, he had routine: substance abuse classes, work,

Family.

But he missed classes, once confusing Queen Creek with Cave Creek.

When he missed a fifth class, his probation officer wanted to talk with him.

“I’m not coming in,” replied Sam.

He was drinking.

“I wanted to be numb.”

The marshals found him at a program for individuals coming off of drugs or alcohol.

They hooked him up and he’s looking at two years in prison.

“Let me serve my sentence. But please, no probation.”

That’s a big ask, Sam.

The Navajos have over 500 Kachinas.

Surely there is one that could help Sam.

Read more by Lacey, here. And please watch, “How the feds destroyed Backpage.com and its founders,” a 40-minute documentary on the Backpage case by Reason magazine.

Please also see:
Within the Barred Bunker: Michael Lacey Writes from Prison
and
Within the Barred Bunker: A New Prison Column by Michael Lacey, ‘A Memorable Day’
and
Within the Barred Bunker: Michael Lacey and the ‘Prison Spa’ Program
and
Within the Barred Bunker: Michael Lacey on His Heart Attack in Prison
and
Within the Barred Bunker: ‘What Sustains Thee,’ by Michael Lacey