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I tell people: several days after the Freedom Reads team opened three Freedom Libraries at Otisville Correctional Facility in late August, I was still unable to let go of how much of a wonder it was.

I dedicated FELON, my last poetry collection, to Christopher Tunstall, Rojai Fentress, Terrell Kelly and other friends of mine who were then still serving time in prison. The book was hardback – and because many prisons disallow hardback books, I’d struggle to get it inside. That problem led me to create an early paperback edition, the Freedom Edition of FELON, only for those on the inside. Then, I transformed the poems into a solo play I could embody and walk inside myself. Why?

I have always felt my freedom begins with a book – both as a tool of liberation and as a means of engendering empathy. I learned this in a cell, where Freedom Reads began – where the notion of transforming lives with books began for me.

While riding to MCI-Norfolk the day we placed the library, I read Malcolm X’s take of his time there. Read how books transformed the way he thought of the world. Walking into the prison, I didn’t know what to expect, though I know prisons and all of their complex brutalities.

Names matter. In prison, I found myself around a bunch of teenagers who, wanting to be more than whatever crime landed them there, gave themselves the names they hoped to grow into. I took on Shahid, meaning "witness," true to the way the things I'd see would shape me afterward. Then, I came home to reclaim my father's name and try again to make good on whatever his parents imagined it promised him, and what he and my moms had imagined it promised me. 

I came home from prison on March 4, 2005. March forth: the only date in the calendar that is also a command. This time of year makes me think all the more sharply of my friends still inside, not yet getting to act out that imperative. Freedom Reads will mark the date this year with a (virtual) celebration of our Freedom Library’s curation.

Twenty-two years ago, I was a teenager in solitary confinement at the Southampton Correctional Center. One afternoon, I shouted to the men in the hole with me: “Somebody, send me a book!” Moments later, Dudley Randall’s The Black Poets was slid under my cell door. By whom, I never knew. But the book got me through some long days.