“The world is better now that you are here.” That was what the sign above the entrance read. It was wooden; the letters were black. I remember analyzing it as I shuffled off the bus, my mind going through the motions of acceptance, making sure to harden my features, set my shoulders, align my stare. I thought of my daughter. I was glad I talked to her the night before. There would be a hold; communication was a privilege, of which I held none. I don’t think the world is better. No, I don’t think it’s better at all.
We shuffled in line, one by one. The guards, in hopes of displaying how tough they were, stood in a line, as the warden himself did his welcoming speech, reminding us of our standing, reminding us of our place. Gut pushed out, the man was hefty, a good ol’ boy with a heart attack around the corner. I don’t think the world is better. No, I don’t think it’s better at all. One by one, they shaved our heads. They said it was for sanitation, but I found it to be a lesson in degradation, a way of breaking us, which was what this was all about. It was about control. They had it; we had none. Locks fell, beards fell, hair piled, as the barbers, inmates themselves, cut the hair off our faces, our heads, to be bagged and trashed. I don’t think the world is better. No, I don’t think it’s better at all.
We were assigned our dorms, which housed around two hundred, the jungle, beds stacked, three high, single file, with no more than three feet between each bed. Our homes. We kept them neat, as most convicts do, as a way of keeping control over what we could. It was hot inside our concrete fortress, as summer in South Georgia is. Sweat poured from the walls, and tensions flared. When violence broke out, I thought of the families. Brothers, sons, and fathers with loved ones, alone. I don’t think the world is better. No, I don’t think it’s better at all.
For Tommy Nielsen, writing is where he goes to find peace, freedom, and space from the baggage he carries. It’s a place where he can be free, express himself, and turn something raw into something different, something new, something pure. When he writes, he feels the most connected with himself.