When I was 15, I spent nine months in juvenile detention. Every day looked the same: I woke up at 6 a.m., brushed my teeth and hair, left my cell to eat breakfast, spent a few hours on the phone and watching TV, ate lunch and dinner, and went back to my cell by 10 p.m. The routine left me with a lot of free time to think about life and the decisions I had made up until that point.
One of the few disruptions to these long, boring days was the programming provided by the counselors. My favorite was about Shakespeare — it was my introduction to poetry. One of the first assignments we were given was to write a poem. I had never written a poem before, and I decided to write a letter to my family.
I wrote about things I had spent years not talking about, but needed to say out loud. When I read the poem to my family later over the phone, I felt relieved. It felt like a burden had been lifted off of my shoulders. But when I returned to my cell after that phone call, my sadness soon returned. Despite being able to finally express myself and share what I needed to say with my family, I was still alone.
I kept attending the Shakespeare program, and I kept writing and sharing my poems. I’d read them to the officers, other girls in my pod and some of the sergeants. Through poetry, I had found a way to express myself. For the first time in my life, I felt heard.
Why?
Why?
Why is the question.
Why does it feel like I threw my life away?
Why did I choose to go
when I should’ve stayed?
Why? Why is the question. Why does it feel like I threw my life away? Why did I choose to go when I should’ve stayed? If I would’ve stayed, I wouldn’t be inside this place. Dreaming back to that day, I wish it all could be erased, just like the push of a button, just like a hidden tape. Locked up like a dog inside of a cage, deep down inside my body is full of rage. Why? Why did I leave that scar? I wasn’t thinking. I never knew it would get this far. Reading and praying to God and wishing to the stars, eager to be successful, so I go to play the right cards. Never going back to the old me, never letting down my guard. Why? Why do I cry? I know I’m not perfect, but at least I try. Crying to myself and praying to God for better days. I became a better person and changed my old ways. Thinking about all the bad things I’ve done, locked in a building all day without a lick of sun. All the trouble I’ve faced, and I had a choice to stay or run. Chose the wrong path, so basically I loaded the gun.
By reading my poems to some of the officers and sergeants in detention, I felt that they started to see me differently. The way they spoke to me and treated me felt different; they started to see me as somebody’s child, not just another detainee on their pod.
I started to see myself differently, too. I started to see my own potential. I felt more compassionate toward myself and more driven. Writing helped me stay motivated to prove that I could be more than just “a menace to society.”
Look Closely
Look closely, don’t judge what you see.
Why would you judge a person
when you don’t know their pain,
running deep, messed up in the head
because they feel they gave their life to the streets?
Look closely, because it’s beyond what you see.
unlocked an ability I thought I never had,
and God gave me the key.
Now all I gotta do
is stay focused and be a better me.
Feeling depressed and stressed,
and only God knows the rest.
Attitude stable,
but my behavior wasn’t the best.
I feel empty inside.
I wish someone could see,
but it’s like I’m behind a curtain
in a blind, quiet room —
nothing but thinking time.
I look in the mirror and I see damage.
What happened to the little girl?
The little girl has vanished.
I try to hold my head up,
but it’s only too much that I can manage.
I spent my birthday in juvenile,
got bound over in November,
wishing I could go home—
no more lonely Decembers.
Thinking back to some old days,
permanent scars so I’ll always remember.
I go to sleep so I can dream,
because when I’m awake,
I’m all alone, wishing I could go home.
I’ve never been away from home for so long
The time I spent in juvenile detention was my eye-opener. I found one of the things I love doing the most during my time there: poetry. But being locked up didn’t make me a poet, and it didn’t make me the person I am today. It was my effort in staying out of juvenile detention with the help of my mentors that made me the person I am today.
Today, I am Trekeria Rainey: a sophomore at University of Arkansas Pine Bluff, business & finance major, and a youth activist from Memphis. I hope that by sharing these poems, I will inspire other youth to find their voice. I hope they persuade the people who make decisions about youth in the justice system to see us for who we are: human beings.
Society
When i got locked up in juvie, it made me
see life different. Mamas crying bullets
flying n a whole lotta black kids are dying.
Everybody got beef, everybody wanna be street until
they get hit with that heat or end up on
a tee. When yall gone open yall eyes?
When are yall going to look at society?
Its like they setting us up to fail paying
millions dollars for these multi million dollar
jails. 1000 kids are in foster homes.
1000 kids are feeling alone.
Some people take they life for granted.
Until it all done you gone see who really
your friends. When you in jail some ain't
gone pick up the phone. You say you gone
die for your gang members but is they
gone die for you. You came in this world
alone you gone die alone don’t judge
me i’m just telling the truth.
Went to jail n i change best believe
you can change to seeing life for its
true colors best believe you
can see it too. We all sister n brothers
we all the same crew.
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