Taking the train from New Haven to Grand Central Station for the first time was the first step of my journey to Tribeca. Then again, maybe my first step was getting out of prison last July. Or maybe it was two years earlier, when I was granted a commutation and my 48-year sentence became 30. Being outside gave me access to a kind of freedom that Dwayne talks about throughout March Forth, a documentary about his incarceration as a juvenile. The film also raised questions that I still cannot answer: When does freedom truly begin for those of us released from prison? And what does it mean to be free when you carry prison with you wherever you go?
March Forth premiered at the Tribeca Festival in June. I was excited to be there, knowing how amazing the film is and eager for others to finally see it. The theatre was packed, and most of the Freedom Reads team was in attendance. I chose a seat in the very last row because I knew that, at some point, I would cry. I was that honest with myself. Having watched March Forth at various stages of its development, I knew there was always a moment when I couldn't hold back the tears that built behind my eyes. Every single time, it forces me to confront what it means to be free. I mean truly free.
The documentary is all about that question and its many complicated answers. It is deeply personal—more honest than I even expected. Dwayne talks openly about doing the time and the painful reality of never being able to fully leave it behind. That is the lingering tragedy of incarceration: you may be released from prison, yet you are never completely free from it.
Dwayne is incredibly transparent about his mental health struggles after leaving a space designed to systematically dismantle a person's emotional well-being. As crowded as prisons are, the fight to remain healthy is a war you fight entirely alone. But it makes you wonder: who arrives at prison healthy anyway? The entire system of justice and arrest applies a fracturing pressure to a person long before they ever step into a cell.
Dwayne describes this process in vivid detail, giving viewers a brief glimpse into what he faced as a juvenile trying to become a man behind bars. What the film does brilliantly is stretch out those moments, allowing us to witness them deeply. Dwayne and filmmakers Robe Imbriano and Valerie Hong linger on these glimpses long enough for real understanding to take place, while the chorus of other voices throughout the film helps the larger story take shape.
When Dwayne’s friend Luke spoke about Dwayne representing him at his parole hearing, I felt the sharp ache of his pain—recalling what it felt like to be denied so many times, feeling like nothing would ever be enough for the board. Then, Dwayne steps in, and Luke is finally granted parole after a lifetime of rejections. Hearing Luke's mother speak about her profound gratitude, saying she could never repay Dwayne, is what finally brought on my tears. Mothers whose children are locked up carry a perpetual heartache; seeing Luke get out made one mother's heart ache a little less, and that was a beautiful thing to witness. But while I was battling my emotions in the audience, Dwayne was battling his own onscreen. As much as he rejoiced in Luke’s release, he remains haunted by the losses—by the friends he represented who remain locked away.
My thoughts were all over the place watching Dwayne speak so bravely about his emotions. He addressed the heavy guilt of moving forward when the men who became your brothers are left behind. Makes you feel almost guilty for being free. Makes you want freedom for them so bad that it hurts sometimes to know that they are still Inside going through what only someone who has been Inside knows. And these feelings aren't orderly or convenient; they sneak up on you when you least expect it. They arrive much like time does—stealing up on us as lines appear on our faces, lines we resist with everything we have. Prison halls and cellblocks are defined by hard lines, and they are resisted purely through the strength of the human will.
Dwayne talks about crossing a literal line just to get a book, a risk the audience might not fully comprehend. He was risking what little autonomy he had in a place that strips your humanity upon entry. Going to segregation—the hole—is something no one can truly understand unless they have lived it. Just the memory of it is wild. You are surrounded by officers, placed in handcuffs, and marched down the tier as every single eye watches the show. Every person watching knows the potential violence that can erupt at any second during those movements. Every eye knows that each trip to the hole is a sort of goodbye. No one comes out of segregation the same. Some never come out at all, choosing suicide as their only escape. It is called the hole for a reason: each trip opens a void in your heart and mind. How deep that void goes depends on the person.
March Forth speaks to the reality of living with those holes—trying to heal while navigating a full life on the outside. Because life doesn’t slow down to let you acclimate to a world that did its best to leave you behind. You are constantly left: left by the time you lost while Inside while the world moved forward; left by the relationships that vanished when you disappeared from lives that kept on going; left behind because leaving others behind means a part of you is abandoned, too. Alone is how you feel when those holes begin to suppurate. Emotions tumble into one another, and your thoughts whirl as you try to find your footing in a world that cannot possibly understand you. Going to prison as a child and coming out a healthy man is an almost impossible feat. Prison is simply not a place of healing.
The film forced me to examine what healing looks like for me as I watched Dwayne fight for his own version of it. Hearing him talk about crying, weeping, and learning to sit comfortably with his emotions was an incredible thing to see on a movie theater screen. Dwayne is a brilliant storyteller, yet March Forth never feels performative. It caught him at a specific junction in his life where the truth simply could not be hidden.
The film made me realize I am still trying to make sense of the emotional chaos that closes in on me at some of the most unexpected times. Ironically, most of the time, it is pure joy that overwhelms me. Joy at being free after so many years of unfreedom. Gratitude for the beautiful opportunities I have been given. Yet, feeling overwhelmed is uncomfortable, even terrifying. Anything that brings tears makes me uneasy—even happiness. Being less than a year removed from a quarter-century Inside, I am still trying to find the emotional equilibrium I need to survive out here.
Maybe true freedom doesn’t exist once you have been to prison. Or maybe, just maybe, freedom will finally come when I stop searching for it.