What a Memorial Service in Prison Looks Like

 Maybe the title of this post is a little misleading. You see, I've been in prison for over 13 years now, and I've never once even heard of a memorial service for a prisoner who died, let alone attended one. Until this past Friday. 

Normally, when a prisoner dies, other prisoners talk among themselves. "Did you hear so-and-so died?" one prisoner will ask. "Yeah," another will respond. "That's messed up." And that's about the extent of the grief processing. Because prison staff treat us with such little value, we learn to treat each other the same way. Because we've experienced so much loss, we've become desensitized to it. Any processing we do is done internally--alone. 

So when Trice, a member of the prison community to which I belong died, some of us decided we needed to do things a little differently. Although Trice belonged to the Nation of Islam (NOI), he belonged to a larger community made up of Calvin Prison Initiative students and vocational trades students in the same prison facility. So, a few of us in leadership within the Protestant and NOI communities decided to organize an inter-faith memorial service for Trice. 

We planned out a service, complete with prayer, two songs sung and played by a few men, and ten speakers who shared memories of Trice. As the time for the memorial began, people from the prison community poured into the auditorium. Members of the Protestant and NOI services, CPI students who belong to neither faith, and others from the broader community found their seats. Soon, attendance grew to over 100 prisoners.

After an opening introduction and prayer, several prisoners played and sang "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye," by Boys to Men. The tissues came out in droves as men connected the lyrics to the recent loss of Trice, and to other losses they've never processed fully. My mind immediately went to the death of my father just over a year ago, a death I still haven't fully processed. 

Following the song, ten men took turns sharing their memories of and experiences with Trice. As we all shared our memories, similarities emerged, and Trice's personality shown through. We had some laughs at his quirks, and we shed some tears over missed moments. One especially gripping moment for me was when one prisoner shared how he helped hold Trice when he experienced his medical emergency. He broke down as he shared, "If I would have known it was the last time I'd hug him, I'd have held on a little longer, held a little tighter." 

This entire experience was probably the most profound experience I've had in thirteen years in prison. It was painful, but cathartic. It was gut-wrenching, but healing. I'm proud to have been a part of it. I'm proud to belong to a community who rallies around each other, who honors each other's dignity as human beings. This isn't really how a memorial service in prison looks like, but maybe it'll be a model for future memorials, should they, God forbid, be needed.