Change The Game: A Memoir

By T.M Jefferson

Change The Game is not just a memoir - it is a testament to the power of human agency and the transformative potential that lies within all of us...

In a world where reinventing oneself is often viewed as an impossible task, Change The Game <

• Language: English
• Publisher: TMJ BOOKS
• Release date: Jun 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088169971

T.M Jefferson

TM Jefferson is a American writer and founder of TMJ Books, an independent publisher of fiction and non-fiction. He is a Amazon Bestselling author of nine titles and 2-time nominee for independent publisher of the year. To date, he has sold more than 400,000 books, including digital and physical formats.TM contrives a vividly, detailed canvas out of words that literally spring off the pages. Descriptive scenes, clever plot formation and intoxicating story lines are sure to keep the reader enthralled. Some of his favorite's are Donald Goines, Chester Himes and James Patterson. TM currently resides in Georgia with his wife and son.

Book preview

A - SIDE

CHAPTER 1

PAROLE VIOLATOR: APRIL 2010

I never imagined that the greatest obstacle I would face in life would be the person staring back at me in the mirror. I was my worst enemy, battling my inner demons every step of the way as I fought to overcome the adversity that threatened to consume me.

I sat with my head against the tinted window of the bus, the barren forest and snow-capped mountains flashing by my peripheral vision, a blur of muted greens and whites. Hours had passed since I finished breakfast - a bowl of Farina, two slices of toast, and some scrambled eggs, and my stomach was growling ferociously. Despite nodding off intermittently, my sense of time had all but vanished. All I knew was that it had to be close to lunchtime.

As I gazed out at the passing landscape, exhaustion set in. My wrist and ankles were swollen from sitting too long, and my mind was consumed with the thought of having to take this trip a second time. The memories of the first trip flooded my brain. The long hours on the bus, the endless miles of desolate terrain, and the continual feeling of unease plagued me. The familiar sights were mundane and uninteresting.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself somewhere else - somewhere exciting and new. Maybe a beach in the Caribbean or the fast-paced, illuminated streets of Tokyo. But even the thought of those places failed to bring me out of my daze. I was stuck on this bus, on this journey, with strangers and my own thoughts to keep me company. As the bus wound its way through the mountain passes, I felt the apprehension build within me. I had an idea of what lay ahead, and I knew it couldn’t be good.

I looked at the man sitting next to me. His head was low and his chin nearly touched his collarbone. With every bump on the road, he wiggled and bobbed his head like a bobble-head doll. His name was Son, and Son was from Queens. He had told me this during our brief interaction before we headed out on our trip.

The CO paired us up and bent down to put the metal bracelets around our ankles, further solidifying our brief union.

Peace, he extended his fist. Son.

Peace, I replied, touching his fist with mine. GS.

GS was my street/stage name. It was an acronym for Ghetto Star.

I extended my arms and watched as the CO placed another set of metal bracelets on my wrist, secured with a black lock box and an iron chain that wrapped around my waist.

Where you from? Son asked.

Westchester County, New Rochelle. As with every encounter, I was proud to say where I was from; always representing. Most people I came across had never heard of my city, but they were usually familiar with the surrounding areas.

New Row-chelle, word? Okay. Yonkers, Mount Vernon n’ shit...

I smiled. Yeah... Where you from?

QU..., he answered. Queens...

I know a few people out that way...

An eerie silence lingered before he spoke again.

You ready for this long-ass ride? he asked.

As the CO double-checked our bracelets to make sure they were secure, I smirked, looked around and shook my head.

Like me, Son had taken this trip before. He had taken it more times than I had. He was a seasoned veteran when it came to these trips. Son was older than I was. Possibly in his late thirties, or early forties. He was dark-skinned, well-built with a salt and pepper goatee beard and short-cut, wavy hair. Son had a hustler’s demeanor. I could tell he was a get-money type of guy from our initial meeting.

I shifted focus back to the window, watching the mountains, staring at the bare trees, curious to know where and when this trip would end. My back was stiff and cramped, and I was squirming in my seat. I nudged Son’s arm to wake him. You know what spot we going to? I asked. It was a normal occurrence to be on one of these trips unaware of your final destination. The New York State Department of Corrections felt it necessary to keep inmates in the dark about what prison they were being transferred to. It was a measure put in place to deter violence.

Son arose from his slumber, wide-eyed. What happened?

Nothing. I said, do you know what spot we going to?

Chateaugay...

Chate-what?

Chateaugay, he repeated. Franklin county. Clinton hub.

I sighed and shook my head. I ain’t never heard of no shit like that. You serious?

Son smiled, revealing a row of gold teeth. It’s a violator spot. You on a violation, right?

Yeah... but... in mid-sentence, I caught a glimpse of a green and white sign as we sped down the highway. What the... did that say fifteen miles to Montreal?

Probably did, he answered, trying to get comfortable in his seat.

Montreal, Canada? my voice cracked.

Son let out a short laugh and looked at me. Yeah. I told you... we going to Chateaugay...

In that instant, a change occurred. As I gazed out the window, looking at nothing in particular, my mind went back to the first time I heard the Wu-Tang Clan, and Inspectah Deck’s line from C.R.E.A.M;

‘Handcuffed in back of a bus forty of us...’

The truth hit me; it was like a ton of bricks crashed into my chest. I could barely catch my breath as the weight of my decision bore down on me. I knew right then that this was a turning point, a pivotal moment that would shape the rest of my life. The feeling permeated every fiber of my being, from the depths of my soul to the marrow in my bones, leaving me momentarily paralyzed with the gravity of it all. The universe seemed to shift as if rearranging itself to accommodate this new reality. It was then that I knew; this was the last time I would take this trip. From now on, everything would be different.

It was a long winding road trip, but we finally made it to Chateaugay, New York. As we arrived in town, the first thing that struck me was the eerie resemblance to a ghost town straight out of a movie. The streets were deserted, with not a single soul in sight. The silence was deafening, and the air was thick with an unsettling stillness that sent shivers down my spine.

We slowly rode down the main street, and as we did, it felt as if we were the only ones left in the world. The buildings were old and worn, with boarded-up windows and peeling paint. It was like time had stopped in this little corner of the world, and everything had been left to decay.

As we moved further into town, the feeling was akin to an isolated island, cut off from the rest of the world. The energy was flat, and the lack of any signs of life only added to that feeling.

Pulling into the facility, we passed through a rolling fenced gate, topped with spikes and barbed wire. There was a small wooden officer station to our right where two COs were awaiting our arrival. One of the officers carried a long pole with a mirror attached to the end. He stuck the pole under the bus and checked each side of the undercarriage, from front to back. The other officer held a leash with a dog at the end of it. He circled the bus with the vicious K-9 and stood at the door, waiting for us to exit.

A few minutes later, we exited the bus, stepping into the stale, frigid air. We shuffled past the sniffing K-9 and entered a small cottage-like structure where they removed the bracelets from our wrist and ankles. Upon arrival to any New York State Correctional Facility, each inmate had to be screened for mental health and disease. After seeing a doctor, dentist, and a psych, they checked our property bags and we were split into groups and escorted through the compound to our respective housing. As we strolled along the path, I was awestruck by the sight of the colossal wind turbines towering over us, their massive blades slicing through the air with a faint hum. To me, they looked like giant birds, their wings spread out wide as if taking flight.

As we walked further into the compound, the number of turbines scattered across the landscape was staggering - it seemed as though they stretched on forever, as far as the eye could see. What impressed me most was their height; they were so tall, it was hard to imagine how they could stand upright without toppling over. It was my first time seeing these machines up close - I came from a place where wind turbines were a foreign concept. But here, in this vast open space, surrounded by the whirling giants, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder and amazement.

Myself, Son, and two other guys were dropped off at the same dorm. The rest of the group continued down the path. When we stepped through the door, it was silent. You could hear a feather hit the sand. A White female CO with dirty blonde hair and glasses sat at her post, in the middle of the dorm, eyeing us as we entered. Her facial expression was non-existent. No smile, smirk, not even a greeting. Her demeanor was devoid of emotion, to the point she appeared almost robotic. One by one we stood in front of her and called out our state number.

Zero, six, A, four, six, one, nine... I stated.

The New York State Department of Corrections assigns each inmate a DIN number during the reception process. Your DIN number is used as an internal identifier. It takes the place of your birth name while you’re in the custody of the state. The purpose is to provide a standardized system for tracking and managing inmates within the state correctional system. This number serves as an inmate’s permanent identification number and is used to monitor all aspects of their incarceration, including location, medical records, disciplinary history and visitation records.

The numerical code, 'zero six A 4619,' was more than just a random assortment of characters; it was a cryptic symbol of my existence within the world of the New York State Corrections. Each element of this code held a specific significance, a secret language known only to those who had been swallowed by the system.

The 'zero six' at the beginning represented the year we were in, 2006, the era in which my life took an unexpected turn. It was a numeric emblem of the passing of time, a march forward that I could neither escape nor alter.

The letter 'A' that followed was the key to deciphering my journey. It signified the reception facility that I had to pass through, which, in my case, was Downstate Correctional Facility. This letter encapsulated the initial step in my odyssey through the justice system, marking the point of entry into a world vastly different from anything I had known.

Finally, the numbers '4619' carried a weight of their own. In the grand scheme of things, I was the four thousandth six hundred and nineteenth person to embark on this journey. Each number represented a life, a story, and a unique set of circumstances, and I was just one among many.

This code, 'zero six A 4619,' served as a constant companion throughout my time in the system, a reminder of where I stood in the hierarchy of confinement. It was validation to the dehumanizing nature of incarceration, reducing individuals to mere digits on a ledger.

It’s also used to facilitate communication between different agencies involved in the inmate’s incarceration, such as courts, law enforcement and other correctional facilities. The DIN number plays a crucial role in ensuring the safety, security, and effective management of the New York State correctional institution.

The CO peeked at the clipboard in her hand and pointed me in the direction of cube forty-two, which was in the back. I tossed my property bag over my shoulder and stepped. Each cubicle I passed was occupied and not one familiar face stared back at me. I got to my cube, dropped the bag, and took a seat on the stiff cot that would be my bed for the next five long months. Son was assigned the cube directly across from where I was. He put his bag down and walked over. You smoke? he asked, making the motion with his fingertips to his lips.

Yeah. You need one? I fished through my bag, searching for my pack of cigarettes.

Nah. I got one, he said. I think we can smoke outside.

As Son and I stood in front of the dorm, a casual conversation unfolded where we exchanged bits of our personal stories. Our initial intention had been to leave for home at roughly the same time, but as life often does, it had other plans in store for us.

It was a week or two after we arrived in upstate New York, when Mother Nature decided to unleash her wrath upon us. The wind howled like a pack of wolves, and the skies opened up, dumping a deluge of snow on the compound. It was a sight to behold - massive flakes the size of baseballs, whirling and twirling in a frenzied dance. It was as if the world had been turned upside