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  • The Marshall Project

    Finding Peace—and Briefly, Freedom—at My Grandfather’s Funeral

    “Saying goodbye with the people who loved him—and me—I remember that I am not the tomb that imprisons me.”
    by Robert K. Wright Oct 11, 2019 6 minutes

    At Sing Sing, once classes are over in the school building at night, we are allowed to use the phones in the yard. Chaos usually erupts as inmates race to the phones like stampeding bulls. It’s enough to make me avoid the trouble on most nights. But there are times when I fiend for the voice of a loved one and am forced to join the herd.

    Life Inside Perspectives from those who work and live in the criminal justice system. Related Stories

    One late summer night in 2014, I get in line and hand my I.D. to the officer. When I hear my name called, I squeeze past the other inmates and dial my mother’s number. I listen to the automated message and anticipate the melody that is her voice. As soon as she speaks, I know something is wrong. I could always sense her pain, even when I was a child. It runs down my flesh like the chills. My heart

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