I have spoken about some of my favorite, most memorable days in jail. Sure, the good days are fun to look back on, especially when lessons can be gleaned from them, but growth comes from hard days. Days where theres nothing and no one to help, no lawyer, no prank, no judge, no Deftone, no El Capitan, and no Mama there to save me.
February 9th, 2017 was my least favorite and most alone day of my whole sentence and probably my life. I had some pretty bad ones before, but nothing like that Thursday. The hardest times for me, before this day, were days before I received my sentence. In those early days, right after getting arrested and served a secret indictment from 2 year old charges, I had no idea what was about to happen to me. The not-knowing was excruciating. I sat in county jail for 6 months before I even had the smallest idea of whether or not I could make plans to be out of prison in the next 5 years.
I remember talking to my mom on the wall phone at Hinds County Detention Center. I had been locked up about 4.5 months. I was calling my lawyer, on the daily, on my cell-mate’s cell-phone. I was consulting every jail-house lawyer multiple times a day. 10% of my time was spent playing spades; 5% of my time was spent reading my Bible; and the other 85% was spent trying to legally get out of jail.
Well, on this day, I was at my wits end. I had done everything in my power to figure out how to get a bond to get out of jail, at least until sentencing. I yearned for freedom, even if it was temporary. I was unsuccessful, so my mom, my sister, and my oldest niece had just met with my lawyer, for the first time. When they left, my niece, Queen Bee, was in tears. Pretty sure, I wouldn’t get to see her kids grow up. I had already missed her wedding, because I was in rehab.
The lawyer was throwing around numbers that were double digits, and the first digit was a 2 or a 3. I had kept a very positive mindset up until this point, but when my mom told me this new info, my foundation shook all the way to the corner-stone. I had not left zone A-2 in months. I had been in that room; except for the few times, I went to medical for the entirety of my stay.
I didn’t think it was possible, but that day, when speaking with my mom, the room I had been in for months, actually got smaller. I could feel tears begin to roll down my face. My mom was already in enough turmoil; I didn’t want her to hear my resolve start to retreat. She said, “Bardin, are you ok? Are you crying?”
I had been so strong. I woke up each day in a good mood. I searched for positivity in small things. Don’t let me set you in spades or go low in Tonk, the whole zone was gonna hear about it, but on this day, I couldn’t speak, just quietly sob. I couldn’t hide it from my mom. I, also, couldn’t stand in the middle of the pod at the baddest County Jail in Mississippi and cry like a scared little boy. I needed to get away. I told my mom, in between quiet sobs, “Mom, I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. You know me, give me a few minutes a lone, and I’ll bounce back.”
I hung up the phone and went into my cell. I simply needed some time to renew my mind. I was holding up. At this point, I truly trusted God with my future; I wasn’t about to let my emotions get the better of me. I laid on my hard mat, in my dark cell, as my gangster, bi polar, schizophrenic, and possibly possessed cell-mate looked out the window, talking about voodoo and green magic. Yes, it was extremely weird in there. From my eyes’ vantage point, things looked grim, but over the next 15 minutes, peace filled my heart again. I went back outside and called my mom. I said, “Hey, it’s me again. I’m back ok again, Mom. That number of years was pretty overwhelming to me for a second, but I just needed a few minutes to get myself back together, again. I got myself into this, but I still trust Him.”
On February 9th, 2017, no peace was to be found in my room or anywhere, for that matter. I was sitting at the booking desk around lunch time. I heard El Capitan scream my name, per usual. I jumped up to report to the boss man before something crazy was said to me. I was hustling. I went into is office, but he didn’t give me his usual face, tell me to do something, start a YouTube video, or begin a philosophical conversation. His face was softer this time. He simply said, “Hey, Bardin, you need to give your mom a call.”
This was weird. El Capitan rarely called me Bardin. He usually called me Boyd. He called me Bardin in softer, friendlier times. El Capitan and I were and are friends, but he was also the boss man and a marine. I also had no idea why or how my mom would send a message to El Capitan. She had Deftone’s phone number. They had texted about some of my skin problems, brought on by the hard, Rankin County water and not by my sensitive skin. Deftone had even told on me for my tobacco use. My mom knew the phone number to the booking desk. There were so many easier ways for her to get in touch with me. There were only a couple things, I thought it could be. My first thought was that my Mamaw was back in the hospital, again. She was in her 90’s and had some health issues.
I don’t get jealous a lot, but I do get jealous of one thing. Most people I know have or have had 4 grandparents. I was a surprise 4th child. My closest brother is 14 years older than me. My sister is the oldest, and she is 20 years older than me. My parents were older than all of my friend’s parents. My dad’s parents were older when he was born, as well. They had long since passed, by the time I came around.
My mom was born in her house in Eden, Ms. It is a tiny, barely-still-there community in Yazoo County, MS. She is the 2nd oldest of 5 children, 2 boys and 3 girls. They were poor. There is picture hanging up in our house of my mom, when she was a little girl playing in the dust. I joke with her, that I didn’t know she was alive during the Great Depression.
When my mom was 11, her dad passed away from terrible diabetes. This left her mom, Mary Kite, my Mamaw, as my only Grandparent. When you don’t have a lot of something, especially people, then you really cherish what you have.
Mamaw had a 9th grade education. I can still see her child-like hand-writing in mind’s eye. Its not hard; she would hand-write me a long card every year for my birthday. In it, every year, she would include 5 dollars. Our birthdays were always special, because I was born a day after her. Just one of the few reason I was her favorite grandchild. She never told me that, and every one of my siblings and cousins would tell you the same thing, except it would be about themselves. That’s how well she loved all of us. She didn’t have money to give me, but what she did have, she gave me in spades. She gave me and my people a legacy of love and faith.
As I look back on my Mamaw’s life. I see hard times overcome by faith, prayer, and a relentless work-ethic. After my grandfather passed, Mamaw worked full time at a factory, while keeping up the family farm, he had left her with. She would end up burying 2 of her children. She may have buried them, but the losses did not cause her to bury her faith. On the contrary, her faith was strengthened.
She is to this day, the most independent person I have ever known. She lived alone into her 90’s. Even during times where she would stay with my mom or aunt, She was never satisfied, unless she was working towards going to live back at her house. She would stay on both of them, never missing a chance to interject to them that she was plaining on going home. They had better just become ok with the idea.
I could list out to you all of the accomplishments that her descendants have had, but that would not catch her essence. Her descendants have had great success, but all of that means nothing without her legacy of faith. This is where her essence will be found. My mom, uncles, and aunts watched my Mamaw provide with hard work, but they also saw her trust God for life on a daily basis. Because of my Mamaw’s simple faith, God’s love and mercy is now evident 4 generations down.
My whole family is full of broken people. We are loud. We get angry at each other; there has to be a lot of forgiveness to go around. A lot of them (not me) are know it alls, too. We are sinners, but everyone of us know about mercy. We all knew about Jesus from a tiny age; now, most all of us, know Jesus on a relational level. When you have a relationship with Christ, it changes you. We are all broken, but we are all changed.
This Change, that was planted in our bloodline generations ago has now germinated into hundreds, if not thousands, of people hearing the Gospel. Her descendants are missionaries, ministers, Bible-runners, Sunday school teachers, deacons, church elders and one ex-junkie who pens a line or two. This is all very important, but more importantly, every child, in each nuclear family of my extended family learns about Jesus at an early age. They don’t just learn about Him; they see Him on a daily basis. The seed planted generations ago has spread to other blood lines as well. Just like we are grafted into Jesus, some members of my family have be grafted into my line. They weren’t born to my family, but they were adopted. The promise of Christ is theirs, just like its mine.They see it as children, then spread it as adults.
After speaking to El Capitan, I walked back to my seat and sat down. I was about to grab the phone but didn’t want to. I had an ominous feeling in my chest. I called my mom. I could tell she was sad. She told me that my Mamaw had passed away peacefully earlier in the day. She was in the back seat of my aunt’s car and quit breathing. She was there one second and gone the next. No pain, just a reception to Glory.
I couldn’t hear any of this. I responded by simply saying, “What?”
My mom repeated everything again. Each word felt like a knife twisting into my ear canal. She sounded so small. I was hurt for her; I was hurt for me. I was in jail though. I was tough. I would go on with my day and not tell anyone. I told my mom that I loved her and would call her later. I hung up the phone and tried to put on a mask….
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