ony Anderson I was born Anthony Anderson. Shortly thereafter, our family including my older sister, moved to Washington where we were raised. My father was an alcoholic, substance abuser, and in addition he was an abusive husband. By the time I was 7 years old, my parents separated and my father decided to move back to his hometown. It was agreed that my sister and I were to move with him on condition we could return to our mother when we chose. That was a ploy to keep us away from my mother forever. In fact, my sister and I became “Amber Alerts” long before the Amber Alert law came into effect. Nevertheless, my father's abuse and addictions continued.
My father began telling my sister and I we weren’t loved nor wanted anymore by our mother. Mentally, we were traumatized and confused. My sister took on the role as my protector. She cared for me, loved me, and constantly reminded me that not only did mom love us, that my father was telling us lies and not to believe anything he said. Luckily (if you want to call it that), my sister would call mom whenever we went to the store, or were alone to notify her of our whereabouts. We moved city to city, state to state until eventually we were found years later. From there we were placed in foster care until reunited with our mother.
Once we relocated back to Washington with my mother, a new addition to our family was in place, my youngest sister. We were continually subjected to substance abuse and alcoholism and as time went by the neglect continued until I chose the streets as an escape from the madness. Exposure to street life taught me survival and another sense of love I hadn’t received at home. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. Although I continued attending school, the structure and discipline of normal childhood was absent. In spite of lies about my home life, emulating a resemblance of happiness was not difficult because I received love from the streets. Overall, I was too young to care, yet I knew that I was angry and hurt with no real way to express the pain that should not have been there.
My encounter with trouble began when I stole a gun from my mother. It was my intention to sell it to get more money for the fair. This was in the 8th grade and my well thought out plan for the fair was spoiled when I was caught with the gun at school. Being kicked out of school captured a lot of attention and I was sent to live with an uncle, where I began anew, meaning a new area to continue being uncontrollable, starting at middle school in Washington.
For the most part, I felt unwanted, which lead to fighting, drinking, and hanging out. At the time gang life became prevalent in my life and the teenagers I hung out with created our own click. For the most part, we were just a bunch of teens creating havoc. By the time I reached high school, I joined a more recognized and structured group known nationwide. Doing so gave me a greater sense of belonging and what I believed a connection to life.
At age 17, I was arrested for assault in the 2nd degree. The sentence was lenient and had little effect. One year later, I was arrested for Vucsa (selling of drugs), and received 34 months, of which I served 2 years. During that incarceration, because of my age (18), I was considered gang affiliated and sent to an institution filled with gang related and serious violent incarcerated men. Ironically, I knew enough men incarcerated to survive (both friend and foe). The bottom line was that “tough on crime” incarceration was just that: “tough.” No job skills “tough,” no release resources “tough.” Imagine that! Age 20, fresh out of prison, entering the threshold to manhood, my threshold was not like most men my age. College or military was not an option for me (eventhough I was in a war and school of my own) from age 20 to 30 was rocky to say the least.
During those years, I experienced tragedies, friends lost to gang violence, others receiving life sentences for gang related crimes and activities, to include murder, drugs, robberies gone bad, and several other frightful, senseless acts. Little by little, I began to see what the adage meant, “the trigger’s got no heart.” It was not until the bullet hit home that caused my turning point.
A huge part of the lifestyle I lived was being carefree and living a glamorous life. The rewards were many at the expense of others. Whether society, crime victims, or substance abuses, all that mattered was that I maintain a certain visible status. Yet with all good things acquired the wrong way, “they will come to an end someday,” and someday for me was when a girlfriend’s house I was staying at became a drive by shooting, because of a rival I had a beef (problems) with. The house was sprayed with bullets from an assault rifle and her 2-year-old daughter was hit in the legs while she slept. The injury did not cause any crippling damage, yet there is not a day that goes by that I do not cringe at what happened. Not only did the above lifestyle crumble, I developed a downward reckless spiral to include alcohol, drug abuse, and depression. Up to this point (within the 10 years since incarceration), most of the trouble I had with the law was minor (traffic violations, failure to report, failure to appear). I had eluded the law otherwise, at least until I was arrested and returned to prison for drug related robbery, drug delivery, receiving 9 years.
In 2004, I was told my father had died, and eventhough I had not seen him since being a kid, some part of me felt a loss. Whether or not I forgive him, it is too early to tell. Maybe someday. For now, I need to focus on what is ahead and instinctively I know I will make good of a bad situation.
Prison changes an individual; regardless of circumstances incarceration becomes an individual choice. In spite of the drama, setbacks, stereotypes, and racism I have experience, what I have learned is that this incarceration forced me to use a determination I never thought existed, a determination to succeed. Every time I think how society views prison and incarcerated people as monsters, I think about my cousin and mentor. His life was equally as tough as mine was. Yet, he is a father, husband, provider, and positive influence in many lives, including mine.
Since being incarcerated, setting goals have become important to me. No longer do I want to feel the results of my actions as “tough.” Upon arrival here at prison, my goal was to finish high school. At the beginning, that was a huge step and I was terrified. Thanks to the Adult Basic Education instructor, I took the course head on. Deep down, I had many self doubts that I could succeed, let alone accomplish a GED. In fact on the test, I believe I scored a 99%. Now I am taking Introduction to Computers (ITC), where I am learning keyboarding and basic computer skills. My institutional program (job) is Correctional Industries customer service. My job involves dealing with various businesses throughout Washington State. As a customer service representative, I must identify myself as an incarcerated person, and then serve the customer to complete satisfaction (even the most unhappy ones). All this had developed a huge amount of self-confidence that replaces the self-doubt spoken of earlier. Still I have not figured it all out yet, but today I have skills I never imagined attainable. And that’s cool for me.
While incarcerated, I plan to remain positive and devote myself to continue the path of better education. It is important that I break this chain of incarceration and eventually aid and assist others. For now, there are limited programs by the Department of Corrections. However, I am hopeful that will change. Perhaps those that read my story will understand I am not looking for pity. Granted, my story is common amongst some and other avenues could have been taken. While writing this brought up some deep, painful memories, I offer no excuses. Instead, I ask for you to have understanding and hope for a better future.